


I don't mind the blood

by MadamPuddifootsTeaShop



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamPuddifootsTeaShop/pseuds/MadamPuddifootsTeaShop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 2x01. Anne Bonny sets some things straight with the bullies that beat up Rackham, and afterwards goes to him to tend to his wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't mind the blood

Anne stormed out of the brothel, angered by Max’ persistent attempts to help. As of late, the cunt’s whore who’d claimed the title of Madame of the brothel Jack and her owned, couldn’t even so much as breathe without driving Anne to the edges of her sanity. And the situation Jack found himself in didn’t help Anne’s case an awful lot either. The air outside luckily managed to calm her nerves. Casually leaning against the wall, she pulled out her dirk and scraped away some dirt from under her nails. She imagined the tip against the whore’s throat and couldn’t suppress the grin at the prospect. The memory of how she used to use knives when making love to Jack came to mind, and the thoughts had her stomach churning uncomfortably. That had been ages ago though.

Her train of thought was interrupted when the bastard who’d been terrorizing Jack for the past few days came into her vision. Or at least the instigator, as it seemed the entire fucking island was intent on ruining what was left of her partner’s pride and name. Her anger flared up again, and despite Jack’s warnings not to, she couldn’t stop her feet from stomping forward and delivering an unsuspected punch to his nose with all her might. 

She estimated the damage done; a fractured jaw bone and possibly a concussion. 

Before the man could try to regain his composure and fight back, she had her dirk pressed to his throat and had him dragged into an alley as to not attract more attention to herself than she already had. He seemed awfully confused about his predicament. 

‘You think it funny, hm?’ she sneered through gritted teeth.

‘What the fuck are you talking about, wench?’

She felt slightly offended when she realized the pig had no idea who he had before him. Unable to come up with a witty comeback (which was Jack’s area of expertise), she instead knocked her knees into his balls, wiping the confusion from his face. 

‘You stay the fuck away from Rackham!’ 

‘Anne Bonny.’

She saw the realization dawn in his eyes and heard the sudden fear and even admiration in the whisper of her name. Had she not been so angry, she would’ve grinned at the intimidated awe that flashed in his eyes momentarily. So he does know my name. She had to resist the temptations to slit the bastard’s throat on the spot as she recalled the image of Jack’s beaten up face. 

‘One more hand on him, and I’ll have you and the entire lot of ‘em castrated like the fuckin’ pigs you are.’

Her fingers itched for blood and murder, but Anne knew she’d caused enough trouble as it was. Throwing around some threats would have to suffice. For now. The man’s pride and common sense were fighting each other, seeing he was resisting the urge to talk back to her. Anne was in no mood for his cocky smart talk, so before he could open his mouth, she pulled at his collar and smacked his head hard against the wall. He dropped out of her grasp and onto the floor, completely unconscious now. She quickly glanced around to see if anyone had noticed the little hassle, hoping they hadn’t and they’d just find him dead in the morning. 

Casually stepping over his limp body, she made move for the brothel again, feeling the sudden urge to tend to Jack’s wounds herself. 

 

[ --x-- ]

 

Anne knocked hesitantly on the door of their room, knowing far too well Jack was in no mood to see her right now. Not bothering to wait for a come in, she opened the door to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from Anne. He was dressed in nothing but a fresh pair of breeches. One of the whores was standing near the window, probably sent upstairs by Max. The pair turned their heads when they heard the door open.

‘Speaking of the devil…’ The whore said as she raised her eyebrows conspicuously at Anne.

‘Get the fuck out,’ Anne growled.

The whore defiantly stood upright. ‘I was ordered by Madame Maxine to tend to his wounds.’

‘Not making yourself very useful then.’ Anne glanced at a helpless Jack, needle and thread in his bloody hands as he tried to sew a cut right underneath his bruised ribs. 

‘He wouldn’t let me come near ‘im. Kept asking for you.’

At that Jack sighed, scrunched his nose and looked away in irritation. 

‘Just tell Max the situation is under control, will you?’ He asked the prostitute politely, but Anne heard the fatigue in his voice. 

The whore nodded reluctantly and then picked up Jack’s soiled clothes to get them cleaned. Anne followed her with a burning glare until she was out of the room. Only then did she dash forward and crouch before him, inspecting the wound near his ribs. 

‘You didn’t tell me you were cut.’ 

She hated that the worry lay thick in her voice, but didn’t refrain from prying the thread out of his hands and finishing the job. It wasn’t done half as decently as she would’ve done it, but she decided the stitches would suffice to have the skin knit together again. He winced when she tied the thread off.

Taking the towel that lay draped on the chair, she poured some rum on it and disinfected the wound. It was then that he noticed the bruises on the knuckles of her right hand. 

‘What did you do?’ 

She saw his face scrunch together in confusion – a gesture she’d become so familiar with for the past couple of weeks. It took him mere seconds to put the pieces together and guess where she’d acquired the chafing. 

‘Anne?’ 

The worry – or was it despair? – was plastered all over his face, and for a moment, she feared she saw him turn pale. He tried to catch her gaze to find the truth, but she shied away from it and lowered her head so she was hidden underneath the brim of her hat. 

‘Nothin’,’ she shrugged. ‘Just knocked some sense into that pig. Is all.’

She’d expected him to yell again as he’d done earlier at the brothel, but all he did was take her hand in his and plant a soft kiss on the bruises, smearing some of the blood on his face, which he hadn’t cleaned yet, on her hand. She understood it as a silent apology for the shitstorm of arguments that would undoubtedly follow. An interrupted moment of peace in the chaos that was their life. 

She felt as if the moment only lasted for a heartbeat, as he released her hand and then gently tipped the brim of her hat aside, asking her to look at him. She obliged, but when she met his gaze, she immediately wanted to postpone the inevitable. So she ever so gently grazed her lips against his. 

‘Darling,’ he purred, though flinched from the contact, probably fully aware that she was trying to divert his attention. 

‘I don’t mind the blood,’ she whispered against his lips, trying to catch another kiss. But before she could, he swiftly escaped her grip and moved towards the dressing table.  
He hunched forward, leaning his hands on the table. Flexing what little back muscle he had, she ran her eyes over the same scars that graced her own back – the price they’d both paid to be together. She couldn’t believe today every force, including the both of them, was doing everything to pull them apart again. 

‘Next time you leave the brothel, you tell me. They won’t touch you when I’m near you.’

His head dropped in defeat at that, and a heavy silence fell on both of them. 

‘You’re getting me killed, darling,’ he finally whispered. 

He turned around to take a look at the cause of both his destruction and delight. He could almost laugh at the sight. She sat kneeling on the ground, her hands tugging nervously at the hem of her coat, and his blood smeared in tiny strokes here and there on her face. She had a pout on her face that made her look like an innocent child who just got reprimanded for drawing on the walls. Sadly, the gravity of the situation was far worse than some ruined walls. 

Unable to bear the sight, he moved towards her again and crouched so he was on eye-level with her. She looked at him with crimson cheeks, as if his words might as well have just slapped her in the face. Picking up the towel she’d discarded on the floor, he wiped away the blood from her face. 

‘I’ve been through this before, and let me tell you, flaunting your pride is not helping our case,’ he told her as he gently wiped away the last blood from her lips with his thumb. ‘So just swallow it already.’

The defiance in her eyes was clear, but she did as he told her – she swallowed it all, even if it left the most sour taste in her mouth. 

‘Things will turn.’

It was an empty promise, they both knew. As long as they had the black mark on them, they were stuck in the shithole of a brothel. But despite their prospects, she nodded, took the towel from him and cleaned up the wounds on his face in return.

**Author's Note:**

> I know kissing someone with blood all over his face might be a little strange, but it's such a Anne thing to do. And it was partly inspired by a poem that I found on Tumblr. It ends with: 
> 
> It is the same as   
> the denotion of blooming,  
> the way your lips part to form   
> the word "flower", and then  
> another word that sounds   
> so closely like my name
> 
> I think, "that can't be right,"  
> but you press my knuckles  
> to your teeth, you tell me  
> you don't mind the blood.


End file.
